


Snowblind

by Le_Tournesol



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Cuddling/Snuggling, Fluff, Frostbite, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Protective!Baz, Snow Storm, baz is lovesick, for survival!, mostly!, so many tropes and cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 20:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tournesol/pseuds/Le_Tournesol
Summary: Clearly, this is not the first time that Simon Snow has nearly frozen to death.It’s a bit horrifying, so I try not to dwell on it.Fortunately, I have plenty of other things to keep me occupied, like the threat of frostbite and hypothermia.... Or, Simon and Baz get stuck in a blizzard.





	Snowblind

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if I don’t do so well with British vernacular. Please feel free to britpick anything and let me know in the comments. Enjoy!

**Baz**

Clearly, this is not the first time that Simon Snow has nearly frozen to death. 

It’s a bit horrifying, so I try not to dwell on it. 

Fortunately, I have plenty of other things to keep me occupied, like the threat of frostbite and hypothermia. 

While I’m not actually sure that the cold can kill a vampire, it’s certainly not a pleasant experience, and I know the cold can definitely kill a Chosen One.

Simon is shivering so hard I’m afraid that he might chip a tooth. 

I give his fingers a squeeze. 

Crowley, mine barely want to cooperate. 

If we don’t do something soon, we’re fucked. 

“We nn... need shelter,” Simon manages to mutter through his chattering teeth. He’s got his hand wrapped around mine to link us together, fearful that we’ll lose each other the storm, an unseasonal white out that swept in quickly and viciously. “We’ll never ma-make it b-b-back to Watford.” 

He’s right. 

The strength of my warming charms waned as the chill set into my bones, and every time I tried to start a fire, the frigid wind snuffed it out. 

We’re running out of time. 

“L-look for a ca-cave or a b-b-big tr-ee.... Any-nything that can b-block the w-wind.” 

We trudge through more than a foot of snow, and it’s slow going despite our best efforts. 

Simon squints against an icy gust and murmurs, “Th-think... I see... something. Up. Ahead.”

I follow his line of sight and am suddenly grateful for my enhanced senses. There’s an outcropping of rock no more than half a meter in the distance. Patches of gray stone and muddy forest floor are just barely visible, but it’s enough. 

“Thank fuck,” I mumble through my chapped lips. 

I start tugging Snow in the proper direction, but he stumbles and lags behind a step. 

“M’fine,” he answers before I can ask, and then he’s back in step at my side. The wind howls as we continue in silence, and Simon bumbles into me a handful of times as we cross the icy expanse. He apologizes, and I notice that his lips are turning blue. 

I urge him faster.

We’ve nearly made it to our best chance at shelter when his hand goes limp in my own and his knees buckle. 

I get an arm under his shoulders just before he hits the ground and lower him the rest of the way. Protectively, I hunch over him and brush the frosty curls from his uncharacteristically pale face. 

“Shit, Simon,” I swear. “Shit. Get up.”

His eyelids twitch, but he doesn’t open them. “Ngh. Baz?” he groans. His mouth twists into a frown. “S’cold.” 

It can’t be good for him to be lying in this shit. 

“I’m fucking aware, Snow,” I curse as I haul him back to his feet. It’s harder than it should be for someone like me, and he sways as soon as he’s upright. 

“M’tired, Baz,” he whines as the snowflakes catch on his eyelids. They don’t even melt, and he’s normally a furnace. 

I brace him with both hands on his biceps and look over his shoulder toward the makeshift cave. 

And then I scoop Simon into my arms. 

He doesn’t complain, which is a bad sign in its own right. 

Somehow he’s languid and stiff, and he uses the last of his strength to curl against my chest. 

His breath puffs against my jaw in short pants. 

His head lolls onto my shoulders and a few bronze curls spill out from beneath his hat.

Fuck.

I tighten my arms around him, and l haul us both through a blizzard with single minded focus. 

**Simon**

Baz is swearing and spelling under his breath, and he sounds scared, which is weird.

Baz is never scared. 

My eyes don’t want to open, so I take stock with my other senses. 

I’m lying on the ground, but there’s something soft under my head. 

Something rustles, and there’s a sudden burst of warmth. Baz sighs audibly and sags in relief somewhere near my head. 

Then his hands are on my face, and they feel warm to me, which is not probably not good because Baz runs so much cooler than I do. 

I crack open an eye. His expression floods with relief, and he drags me closer to the small crackling fire.

“Crowley, you’re fucking soaked,” Baz cringes and starts stripping me out of his coat with fumbling fingers. “Don’t you own anything that’s waterproofed?” 

It’s not really a question. “Fuck. Why aren’t you shivering?” 

This one isn’t really, either, but I force myself to respond even though my tongue feels like it weighs twenty pounds, “S’bad.” 

Baz pauses in his ministrations before he’s back at it with military precision. Once he’s got the coat off, he tries a drying spell, but he’s too drained for it to do any good. 

Baz snarls, punches the frozen ground, and proceeds to tug off my sopping jumper and undershirt. They hit the rock with a wet smack when Baz flings them to the side. 

Baz’s mouth twists into contemptuous scowl when he sees my trainers. I don’t own boots, but I don’t bother to point it out. He pulls off my shoes and socks. I can’t quite hide the wince.

“Aleister fucking Crowley,” Baz swears. My feet have been numb for awhile. They just look awful.

Baz grimaces, but then his expression becomes more resolute. 

He deftly unbuttons my trousers and tugs them down over my hips, knees, and frozen toes. 

I’m left in my pants, but only for a moment. 

I’m too tired to care anyway. 

Baz sheds his own coat, wraps it around me, and then drags me into his lap. My heads come to rest against his chest, but he’s still not finished. 

His missing scarf must have been my makeshift pillow, and he unfolds it before wrapping it around my feet and tucking them under the coat. 

When he’s done, he pulls it over my head to trap in the heat. 

“If you fucking feeeze to death, Simon, I’ll kill you,” Baz threatens. I make an affirmative noise low in my throat. It’s all I can manage right now.

“Don’t go to sleep,” he chides after a few minutes of quiet. He’s parroting my advice back to me, and I chuckle. It comes out a little hoarse, a little broken. “Why exactly do you know so much about exposure? Did the Mage take you on an exhibition to fight a Yeti?” I shake my head. 

“No? Do tell,” Baz is going for his usual snotty aristocratic tone, but I know him well enough to hear the tremor of panic hiding underneath his sneer. 

I lick my lips and try to force the words out of my mouth, “L-locked out. Got. Locked out.” 

I was little. It was a crowded group home with overburdened foster parents, who were strict on curfew. To drive their point home, they locked their door at nine o’ clock and refused to open it. 

I missed the deadline one time, and I never missed it again. 

An older girl who had been living on the streets prior to the placement told me everything she knew about surviving exposure as we huddled for warmth against the side of the house. 

“Just in case you ever need to know,” she’d said. She was probably no more than fifteen, but her eyes seemed much older. “Sometimes I have better luck roughing it.” 

It was a long night. 

She ended up running off again a few days later, and people the children’s welfare office eventually took us all to a new group home.

I don’t know what happened to her. 

Sometimes I still wonder. 

**Baz**

Simon still isn’t shivering. 

I’m bloody freezing, and it’s getting more difficult to remember all the bits about survival he’d rattled off from memory when the storm took a turn for the worse.

I know he mentioned something about skin-to-skin contact because I nearly went into cardiac arrest. 

Not that I can go into cardiac arrest.

I think. 

If anything is going to give me a heart attack, though, it’s definitely the idea of being pressed together with Simon Snow in nothing but our pants. 

I’m too worried to really enjoy his proximity at the moment, but I can’t imagine I’ll have any real composure if I’m forced to strip down as well. 

Idiot. Of course he couldn’t have dressed for the weather. My layers are relatively dry, but Snow walked out into a blizzard in his usual brand of street urchin chic and fucking trainers. 

And now I’ve got a lapful if Chosen One freezing to death in my arms. 

I used the last of my magical reserves to dry enough kindling to keep the fire going and cast  **Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. **

I’m spent. 

I’m out of options. 

And then Simon sniffles. 

Fuck. 

Okay, sure, this is fucking happening.

This is what my fucking ridiculous life has come to. 

I can’t help my frustrated snarl as I yank my tie loose and unbutton my sweater. 

Bundling the coat more securely around Snow, I push him away just long enough to finish removing my own clothes. 

Once I’m basically starkers, I drag him back into my lap and fold him against my chest. He’s compliant, like a limpet, and I hate it because usually he’s sparking with life and energy.  _ Literally _ . 

I wrap my clothing over both of us and rub my hands up and down Snow’s arms, hoping to create some friction and generate some warmth. 

I tuck his frozen feet underneath my bare thigh and suck in a suffering breath through my nose because  _ fuck, those are fucking cold.  _

And then I try to ignore that fact that I’m in my pants, pressed up against Simon, who is also in his pants. 

He doesn’t make a single comment about our predicament, which only serves to make me more anxious. 

Okay. I need to keep him awake, like he said; I’ll keep him talking. 

“Snow,” I nudge him with my shoulder, “How d-did you get l-locked out?” He doesn’t respond, so I jar him a little more forcefully. 

He grumbles weakly, but he finally says, “Was... late.” 

“Late?”

“Care... home,” he says, like it explains anything. “Locked... out.”

“You w-were late,” I puzzle out aloud, lowly, “so they locked y-you out?”

Simon nods.

“Use your words, you n-nightmare,” I chastise, but there’s no real best to it. It’s just habit, an automated response. 

Because right now I’m sticking on the implication of his words. 

Who the fuck locks a child outside for being late? 

Even a child as annoying as Simon Snow. 

I had assumed that a number of the care homes had left something to be desired: Every year Simon came back underfed, his blue eyes too big in his face, and sometimes he ended up sicking up in the bathroom after the first few meals if he overcompensated. 

Truthfully, he’d come back to Watford bruised up some years, but I had assumed it was related to the Mage or the Humdrum, or that Simon had just gotten into a row with some other boys their age. 

I curl more protectively over Simon without realizing what I’m doing. 

What if there were no summer excursions with the Mage? What if it was more than a few tussles with peers?

Suddenly, the sickening image of a faceless man towering over a too thin Simon Snow fills my mind. 

I’m shaking now, but it’s not cold anymore: It’s rage. 

**Simon**

“Baz?” I ask. He’s gone strangely rigid, tensed like he’s angry, like a snake coiled to spring. 

His shivering feels more like fine trembling, and I can sense a shift in his mood.

Baz is pissed off. 

I hope he’s not about to shove me off him and back into the blizzard. I don’t think I’d last long, especially in my pants. 

I’ve actually started to warm up, I think. I might just be imagining it, though. I guess that’s what happens when you’re too cold for too long. You don’t even realize you’re cold anymore, and that’s what kills you. 

I really don’t want to die out here. 

It’s too anticlimactic for the Mage’s heir. 

Baz shifts, and somehow I’m snuggled even closer to his bare chest. My cheek rests on his shoulder, and my lips are pressed against the skin just above his collarbone. 

It’s intimate. 

I can feel the heat creeping into my face. 

“Baz?”

He flinches when I repeat his name, but then he abruptly settles. His voice is emotionless when he asks, “What h-happened next?”

Talking is exhausting, so I try to keep it brief. Even I know that’s counterproductive, but I’m so fucking tired. 

“S’long night. Rainy,” I try not to think about the way my lips brush over his skin, like a kiss. 

I like it. 

I want to do it again.

I stop that train of thought before it can gain any more traction.

This is survival. This is purely platonic. 

We’re just cuddling platonically for survival, like I told Baz earlier. 

I’ve always found Baz to be pretty fit, though, and feeling him up close like this is doing things to me. 

I don’t know where the urge to snog my roommate is coming from right now, but I can’t let myself make this weird. 

And then Baz buries his nose in my hair and inhales.

I shiver. Baz’s fingers flex. 

He whispers, “They l-locked you out all n-night?”

It’s so strange to hear him stuttering, so unlike the carefully composed Baz that I’m used to. 

He must be freezing. 

“Mhmm,” I answer. “Welfare... c-came a few days... la-later. Moved all.. all of us.” I close my eyes and picture her face, “Sometimes... I still... look for her?”

“Who?”

“The girl,” I say. I don’t know why I’m telling him of all people. I’ve never told anyone. “She ran... away. Said... sometimes it was better... on the streets.”

A chill pierces me to the core. Sometimes I worried it was my fault. The police questioned me and everything once they found out she’d run off, but I couldn’t tell them anything useful. 

I cuddle closer to Baz before I share the next bit, the fate I hoped she’d avoided, “She... saw a guy freeze... to death once... Said he went to sleep... and he never woke... up.” 

I’m seeking comfort more than warmth at the moment, but I hope he can’t tell the difference. 

Thankfully, he does comment on the fact that I’ve wiggled even closer, nestled snugly into his chest. Instead, he asks, “H-how old w-were you?”

I purse my lips, think, and answer, “Seven? Probably.”

Baz curses under his breath and spits something about a prize for fucked up childhoods. 

“S’fine... I think... they felt b-bad,” I recall. “I got an... extra serving at breakfast the next... morning.” 

I’m not sure I’m making sense anymore, honestly. 

Baz seems to follow my train of thought, thiufh, as he darkly drawls, “How nice of them to  _ feed you _ .” He huffs, “I can’t believe this is how we’re going to die.” 

“You’re already dead,” I remind him, and then I frown because it seems sort of cruel, “Kind of.” 

Baz snorts, and I like the sound. 

But I’m tired, so I yawn, my eyelashes flutter, and Baz twitches before he softens, “Stay awake. It’s my destiny to kill you. I won’t be upstaged by a snowstorm.” I can feel his lips quirk against my forehead, “The irony would be insufferable.” 

“Mmm,” I agree. “Do... you still want to...kill me?”

“Of c-course,” he responds without missing a beat, and somehow this makes me sad. 

Most of the time I think he’s joking now, but if I’m going to die of hypothermia, I don’t want to take any chances or leave anything unsaid.

“Oh.” 

The cold is really starting to get to me, making me emotional, because I want to make sure he understands. He needs to know. 

I need him to know. 

I swallow, “I don’t... want... to kill you.” 

“How noble,” he lilts, and I know he’s not taking me seriously.

Fine. 

I’ll make him listen. 

My limbs feel heavy and clumsy, but I sit up even though Baz makes a sound of confusion and tries to pull me back, but I’m on a mission.

He’s staring at me in the relative darkness of our clothing fort like I’ve gone round the bind, but it doesn’t matter.

I take his perfect face in my hands and try to ignore the softness of his skin. 

I force him to look me in the eye, and now our faces are probably too close together. 

Close enough to kiss. 

“I don’t want... to kill... you,” I repeat. “I haven’t... for a long... t-time.” 

  
  


**Baz**

Snow is driving me mad. 

I’m sick with worry over how quickly he’s deteriorating, but I’m also completely distracted by him. 

Every tiny shift, the brush of his lips against my clavicle when he speaks, his eyelashes on my skin, his breath against the column of my throat, the soft little noises he makes when he leans more firmly against me, it’s going to be the death of me. 

I knew Snow would kill me.

Proper noun, common noun, fuck it all, this is my life. 

Now he’s cupping my face between his palms like I’m something precious, important, and pinning me with the intensity of those vibrant blue eyes. 

I think my heart is going to beat out of my chest. 

I love this stupid, noble idiot. 

His speech is slurred, but he fights to make his point. 

“I’m... glad the Crucible... put us together.” 

Oh, fuck no. 

My blood sours in my veins.

This is not goodbye.

I am not doing this right now. 

My hands drop to his shoulders and I shake him, “Shut up.” I’m growling, which would be embarrassing if weren’t so fucking scared right now. “Shut up.”

He shakes his head, “I... mean it.” He tilts forward until our foreheads are touching, “I mean... it, Baz.”

He shudders abruptly, and his eyes roll, like he’s used the last of his strength to say this to me, like my name is the last word he’ll ever say, like I would want him to waste his fucking breath on me right now.

He collapses against me.

Fuck. 

“Simon,” I shake him. Nothing. “Simon. Wake up.”

The panic I’ve managed to contain begins to grip my body like a vice. “Simon,” I implore. “Simon. Please.” 

The silence stretches. 

The whiteout rages around us.

We may as well be the only two people in the universe. 

I pat his face insistently, trying to wake him, “Simon, love, please.”

Fuck. 

His heart rate is so slow, and his nails are turning blue. 

And I can’t watch him die.

So I smack my numb hands against my thigh until I get some feeling back.

And then I slap him.

Hard. 

“Ngh,” he groans pathetically, but his eyes blink open. “Stay awake,” I demand. I clear my throat, suck in a breath, and confess, “I don’t want to kill you either, okay? So  _ stay awake.”  _

He sighs, “S’good. T’nks.” 

And then then  _ he reaches for me.  _

I’m hovering over him, so I lean forward. When I’m close enough, he grabs my shoulders and pulls at me until I lie beside him. He’s too weak to make me do anything, but I go willingly. 

I rearrange our cocoon, and Simon tucks himself against my side until there’s no space between us. 

My arm comes around him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I run a hand over his back, and he makes a pleased humming sound that makes my heart hammer in my chest and my face flush. 

He whispers, “Hey, Baz?” 

“What, Snow?”

He waits, like he’s thinking of something, “I like... this better than... k-killing each other.”

My fingers still for a moment before I admit, “Me too.” 

I smile humorlessly, “Though I could do without the threat of frostbite.”

“Mm,” Simon agrees.

The fire snaps and pops, merry and indifferent to our predicament, and if I close his eyes, I can almost imagine that we’re anywhere else. 

It’s a stolen moment, where I can’t help but dream that this is something that I can have, keep. 

The wind howls, Simon shudders, and I weave my fingers through his matted bronze curls. 

It’s indulgent.

I can’t even justify it by claiming that I’m trying to keep Simon warm. 

No, this is just affection and desire, the desire to bring comfort, the desire to be something more if only for a little while. 

**Simon**

Baz slaps me two more times before he announces that the worst of the storm seems to have passed.

He crawls out of the mess of clothing. 

When I peek our, he snarls at me, “You’re g-going to freeze.”

And then he pulls his coat back over my head. 

The next time I try to look, he’s fully dressed and somehow still looks poised and posh in spite of the last few hours.

It’s unfair. 

When he doesn’t scold me, I make a grab for my discarded shirt, but it’s cold and stiff and damp. 

Baz flowers. “I didn’t save your l-life just for you to c-catch your death now.”

He punctuates his sentence by tossing his sweater to me. 

I catch it out of reflex and blink, “But won’t y-you be c-cold?”

Baz barely looks up from primly straightening his bloody tie and quips, “I’m considerably more durable than you, Snow.” 

“S-Simon,” I say automatically. 

“Hmm?” he asks absently. He takes the jumper from my numb, fumbling hands and pulls it over my head. He does up the buttons in a snap. 

Sputtering, I say, “You c-called me S-Simon. Earlier. I h-heard you.”

“You’re h-hallucinating,” Baz contradicts firmly, but the shivering ruins the effect. 

He turns and hands me my trousers, which had been drying by the fire. I try not to combust when his fingertips graze my hips as he helps me pull them on. 

I make a point not to look at him again until I’m mostly dressed.

“You d-did. You c-called me S-Simon.” I pause and consider my next admission, “I l-liked it.”

Baz whips away to grab his coat before I can see his reaction, and then he throws it over my shoulders with a flourish. It’s so long on me it nearly drags the ground. 

“B-Baz,” I protest.

He presses a long, thin finger against my lips, and I’m suddenly thankful for the cold because I’m sure I would be crimson now. 

I want to kiss his finger.

What the fuck.

“Be q-quiet, S-Simon.”

And I am.

Quiet, I mean. Stunned into silence while my heart tries to beat out of my chest.

His stormy gray eyes drop to my mouth, I swear, and then he turns away, brandishes his wand, and casts, “ **Follow the yellow brick road.** ” 

And maybe I am a bit delirious because I laugh when I hear the spell. 

A yellow brick road rolls out in front of us before it disappears under the small hills of snow. 

Baz steps out into it and kicks a mound aside to reveal more of the brick. He squints against the light. 

I’m practically snowblind, but of course he adjusts quickly. 

“It’s n-not far,” he says, and then he smirks, “You w-were leading us in the right d-direction after all.”

I’m glad because I don’t think I’m up for a long jaunt back to Watford. I have trouble just trying to stand up, and my feet feel like lead weights. 

And then Baz is there with his hand outstretched. 

I take it and slump unsteadily into his side. 

I wait for a comment about my deficits of grace, but it never comes. Instead, he smoothly wraps my arms around his neck, twists, and lifts me onto his back with the sort of fluidity that’s both enviable and annoying. 

His hands slide under my thighs. 

“I can walk,” I lie. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he replies. 

He carries me like I weigh nothing, even if he teases me a few times and complains, and something about it all makes me feel lighter. 

When we finally make it back to the gate, the yard is thankfully empty. 

I’m already daydreaming of my bed and maybe a shower. 

I’m sure Penny will come by later, and I’m sure I she would be happy to bring breakfast and cast a few warming charms. 

But Baz doesn’t walk toward Mummer’s House.

I groan, “Can’t we j-just go to b-bed. Where c-could you possibly need to go r-right now?” 

Baz hitches me a little higher on his back, and I yelp, which is embarrassing.

“The infirmary, obviously.”

My brow furrows. Is Baz sick? Is he hurt? Is he worse than he let on?

I squirm a little to get a better look at him and ask, “What’s w-wrong? Are y-you okay?” 

He makes a put upon sound, “I’m fine.”

“Then w-why...?”

“You’re r-ridiculous,” he announces as he enters the main building.

A gust of heat rushes up to greet us, and I sigh. 

He makes a left, and then we’re in the infirmary. He settles me on an empty bed with a gentleness I wouldn’t have thought him capable of before last night, and then he runs a hand through my hair before he disappears into the office. 

“Dithering about in this weather,” Olga chastises as she emerges alongside him a minute later. “You’re lucky Basilton found you.” 

I shoot him a look, and he shakes his head imperceptibly. Apparently we’re here for me, and he’s getting off scot free. 

Olga jams a thermometer in my mouth and tuts when she reads the numbers, “Going to need warm saline.” She makes a note on a chart that seems to have appeared out of thin air and instructs, “But first you need to be dry. Take those wet things off.” 

When she opens the supply closet to rifle for supplies, I start removing my clothes  _ again _ , which is stupid. Really, I’m not that wet. Just my pants, my trousers, my shoes. Baz’s fancy designer jumper and coat kept me dry on the walk back to the school. 

He’s the one she should be fussing over. 

A button on the jumper catches on my hair, and I’m

about to tear it loose when Baz stills my hands and untangles the knot. 

“This really isn’t necessary,” I tell him once I’m free of the thing. “And w-why aren’t you up on one of t-these beds getting l-looked over?” 

Baz eyes me like I’m insane. 

“You’re t-temperature is 35 degrees,” he says. He fixes me with a hard look and whispers, “I don’t think anyone needs to know m-mine.”

Oh. That’s a pretty good point, actually.

“Isn’t there a s-s-spell or s-something for this?” I ask him. 

But it’s Olga who replies as she bumbles back over with an IV drip and a needle, “Sometimes the Normal way is best.” She jams the needle into the crook of my elbow, and I cringe. 

A few droplets of blood well up around the puncture, and I glance to Baz, who looks wholly indifferent.

He must’ve fed sometime before we left last night. 

Before I can think on it anymore, Olga bustles back over and holds out a few pills in a little paper cup and a glass of water. 

I eye them warily. I’m not really in any kind of pain, or at least any I can’t handle. Dubiously, I insist, “I’m f-ine. Really.” 

Olga isn’t having it. She rolls her eyes, “Basilton, please fill this tub with warm water. Warm, not hot.” Then she waves her wand at the bed until I’m sitting up in a reclined position. “Sit it here, please.”

Baz frowns thoughtfully, “Does he have frostbite?”

“Near enough,” she explains. “Mild though.”

She gestures for me to put my feet in the tub. 

Once she’s finished prattling around me, she announces that she’s going to put the kettle on for tea in her quarters and insists it’ll do us both a world of good.

And then we’re alone. 

**Baz **

I’m not sure what to do with myself once Olga vanishes back into to her rooms. While Snow and I have shared a room ourselves for years, there’s no real precedent for this moment. 

Something between us has shifted, and I don’t know how to proceed.

I know what I want, but that’s a fantasy.

I’ll settle for whatever this is now, a truce, a tenuous friendship at best? 

I’ll take what I can get.

I won’t ask for more. 

I’m relieved when Olga pronounces his frostbite to be mild, and I’m amused by the way he pouts once her back is turned.

Honestly, this idiot came in here insisting he was fine. He thought there was something wrong with  _ me _ , which is as endearing as it is ridiculous. I’m the vampire, as he has pointed out all these years. I didn’t even bother to correct him when he brought it up earlier. Why is he worried about me when he is the one who actually has frostbite? 

Frankly, I’m already feeling marginally better now that we’re back inside, and I’m looking forward to the promise of tea. 

I’m wondering if Olga will bring enough sugar and trying to figure out how to approach the change in our relationship when Simon suddenly hisses a breath through his clenched teeth. 

I snap into focus and almost bask, “What?” His face scrunches up. “Do you need...?”

“No,” he gasps. “Shit that h-hurts.”

Oh. My eyes drift to the tub of water. Yes, re-warming is probably pretty miserable, like when a limb has fallen asleep too long, pins and needles.

Simon groans and his head drops back.

And I grab his hand.

Because I’m an idiot, and I can’t help myself.

The last several hours have been endless, and my overtaxed stronghold on my emotions is starting to fray. 

But he doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes my hand and flashes me a grateful smile that soon becomes a grimace of pain 

I brush my thumb over his knuckles, and he relaxes minutely, so I do it again.

The door opens, and I pull away before we’re seen. 

Olga strides back into the room with two cups of tea that I accept gratefully. The warmth surges through me. 

Meanwhile, Olga takes one look at Simon’s gray face and gives him a sympathetic pat, “The medicine should be working soon. You’ll likely sleep through most of the morning.”

I’m glad because his constant wincing is hard to watch. 

“I’ll be back to give your feet a rest in half an hour,” she remarks. “Knock if you need me.”

And then she’s off.

I study the door and consider her for a moment as I take a second sip of my tea. 

While everyone knows we don’t get along, Olga believes in the Crucible. Even if we were the reason the other was in the infirmary, she always still insisted on treating us like we were friendly.

And I’m grateful for it now because I don’t have to explain why I don’t want to leave. 

Shakily, Simon sets his cup on the bedside table.

“You should s-sit,” he nods toward the chair next to his bed. “You h-have to be t-tired. I’m kn-knackered.” 

I mock him lightly, but do as he asks, and he looks pleased. 

We lapse into relative silence, save for the soft, pitiful noises he makes when the pain spikes. I hear him suck in a breath through his nose and see him squeeze his eyes shut against the pain. 

And then he takes me by surprise because he suddenly grabs my hand, laces our fingers together like he’s done it a thousand times.

Stunned, I gaze at our joined hands a little too long before I look up to search his face.

Merlin, he’s  _ blushing _ . 

The color is hot in his cheeks, and I swallow.

He averts his blue eyes before he looks at me firmly, presses his lips together, stammers, “Is... Is this all r-right? I... kind of f-feel better, uh, f-felt better. When y-you were... um, holding me? I mean, when y-you were holding m-my hand, you know?”

Crowley. It’s too easy to remember the way he felt, pressed against my naked side. It’s too easy to picture him in my jumper, just a bit too long, and wrapped in my coat, like lovers sharing clothing. 

And I imagine it. 

I imagine waking up in the mornings with his head on my chest, his lips against my collar, my name on his tongue, a soft, sleepy smile just for me. 

I see him in my football jersey,  _ Pitch  _ spelled out across his back like a declaration. 

We hold hands just because we feel like it, just because it feels  _ right _ . 

And I love it. 

Now that we’re out of the literal woods, it’s like an uncontrolled fire has been set alight inside of me. 

Love, warming me from the inside out, too hot, too fast, too bright.

It’s blinding. 

I can’t answer him.

I don’t trust myself.

But I don’t let go. 

And I hope that’s enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> My first SnowBaz! 5000+ words with no real plot and a plethora of my favorite tropes. But I love these boys. I really need to reread the first book, so please forgive me if I botched anything. Also, this was written, edited, and posted entirely on my phone. 
> 
> Side note, I don’t know when this would take place in story either. It’s purely self-indulgent. Hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. 
> 
> [come fangirl with me on tumblr!](http://www.sunflower-le-tournesol.tumblr.com)


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